Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jan 2014
We all walk.
Just walk.
And walk,
and walk,
and walk.
And someday,
we'll finally get to stop.
We tell ourselves that,
as cracks run up our legs,
like we're made of glass.
Wait, we all are.
And then we go back to walking.
Until that one day,
somewhere in the future,
where it can all stop.
Written by
Tom Cooney
480
   Fen Aarons
Please log in to view and add comments on poems